Category Archive '“Klaxon”'

24 Oct 2015

A Dree Neet

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Deathbed

I found this quoted in “Heather Mixture”, a sporting novel published in 1922 by “Klaxon” (pen name of Lt. Cmd. John Graham Bower D.S.O.). It is apparently a traditional folk song collected in North Yorkshire and published circa 1900 by Robert Blakeborough.

‘T Were a dree neet, a dree neet,
as t’ squire’s end drew nigh,
A dree neet, a dree neet,
to watch, an pray, an’ sigh.

When t’ streeam runs dry, an’ t’ deead leaves fall,
an’ t’ ripe ear bends its heead,
An’ t’ blood wi’ lithin’, seems fair clogg’d,
yan kens yan’s neam’d wi’ t’ deead.

When t’ een grows dim, an’ folk draw nigh
frae t’ other saade o’ t’ grave,
It’s late to square up awd accoonts
a gannin’ sowl to save.

T’ priest may coom, an’ t’ priest may gan,
his weel-worn tale to chant,
When t’ deeath-smear clems a wrinkled broo,
sike disn’t fet yan’s want.

Nea book, nea can’le, bell, nor mass,
nea priest iv onny lan’,
When t’ dree neet cooms, can patch a sowl,
or t’ totterin’ mak to stan’.

. . . . .

‘T were a dree neet, a dree neet,
for a sowl to gan away,
A dree neet, a dree neet,
bud a gannin’ sowl can’t stay.

An’ t’ winner shuts they rattled sair,
an’ t’ mad wild wind did shill,
An’ t’ Gabriel ratchets yelp’d aboon,
a gannin’ sowl to chill.

‘T were a dree neet, a dree neet,
for deeath to don his cowl,
To staup abroad wi’ whimly treead,
to claim a gannin’ sowl.

Bud laal deeath recks hoo dree t’ neet be,
or hoo a sowl may pray,
When t’ sand runs oot, his sickle reaps;
a gannin’ sowl can’t stay.

‘T were a dree neet, a dree neet,
ower Whinny-moor to trake,
Wi’ shoonless feet, ower flinty steanes,
thruf monny a thorny brake.

A dree neet, a dree neet,
wi’ nowt neaways to mark
T’ gainest trod to t’ Brig o’ Deead;
a lane lost sowl i’ t’ dark.

A dree neet, a dree neet,
at t’ brig foot theer to meet
Laal sowls at he were t’ father on,
wi’ nea good-deame i’ seet.

At t’ altar steps he niver steead,
thof monny a voo he made,
Noo t’ debt he awes to monny a lass
at t’ brig foot mun be paid.

They face him noo wiv other deeds,
like black spots on a sheet,
They noo unscape, they egg him on,
on t’ brig his doom to meet.

Nea doves has sattled on his sill,
bud a flittermoose that neet
Cam thrice taames thruf his casement,
an’ flacker’d roond his feet.

An’ thrice taames did a raven croak,
an’ t’ seame-like thrice cam t’ hoot
Frae t’ ullets’ tree; doon chimleys three
there cam a shrood o’ soot.

An’ roond t’ can’le twea taames there cam
a dark-wing’d moth to t’ leet,
Bud t’ thod, it swirl’d reet into t’ fleame,
wheer gans his sowl this neet.

‘T were a dree neet, a dree neet,
for yan to late to pray,
A dree neet, a dree neet,
bud a gannin’ sowl can’t stay.


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